The Best Dream
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: When John wakes, lying in his bed, listening to his own rapid heartbeat and his strained breathing, he suddenly wonders if it all has only been a dream. A dream. The best dream of all. But only if it is true. / Two years after the Fall, two friends are reunited, and John cannot help but wonder. One-shot, character study-ish. Fluffy-ish.


This happens when I am in need of something... cute.

Oh, and although it is not intended to be Johnlock, you probably could read it that way.

I don't own anything.

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_The Best Dream_

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When John wakes somewhen in the night, lying in his bed, listening to his own rapid heartbeat and his strained breathing, he suddenly wonders if it all has only been a dream.

A dream.

The best dream of all. But only if it is true.

Slowly sitting up, inwardly debating with himself, he pulls a jumper over his T-shirt and rises, barefoot, carefully making his way to the door.

It is stupid, probably, but he cannot help it. He has to check.

The stairs have never appeared so long to him as he takes one step after the other, his feet tapping on the wood.

Thirteen steps. He knows exactly how many there are, how many steps he has had to walk upstairs when spending time in the living-room or in the kitchen has become too painful, when there has been nothing left inside him except for the wish to escape, to forget it all.

It has become better as the time has passed, memories attacking him only seldomly after one year. And then he has met Mary, the one woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with. The one.

He stops as one of the steps creaks beneath the sole of his foot. Quiet, he reminds himself.

Mary and John have debated if they should move in together, yet, even before being married. Somehow, he still cannot name precise reasons, they have decided against it, with John not being ready to leave Baker Street yet. Neither does he want Mary to move in - he has told her before that once they are married, he wants to start all over again, wants them to live in a new flat, without old and loved and painful memories.

His heart starts beating even more wildly in his chest when his feet leave the final step.

The door now, the door to the living-room.

Carefully, very carefully, he pushes it open, gazing inside, into the dark room, afraid that maybe everything has been a dream.

A dream.

A wonderful dream.

It is the first night for two days that he finds the chance to get any sleep, but this is nowhere as important as making sure that _he _is still fine. That _he _is still here.

He feels a tiny bit awkward, subconsciously, but he does not pay attention to it. There are more important things. Far more important.

And right now, he cannot think of anyone or anything more important than the man sleeping on his sofa in his living-room.

Sleeping indeed - John can hear his even breathing.

Mary has understood, completely and utterly, that he has wanted to spend this night at 221B, not at her flat, together with… together with…

Carefully making his way around the table, he can finally, in the dim light produced by the street lamps outside, make out the slender outline on the sofa.

For a moment, he can do nothing else but simply stand there, forgetting how to breathe, and watch, in complete silence.

Spend this night together with…

"Sherlock."

It still hurts to say his name, but now, it is a different kind of pain. The pain of remembering, of two years of thinking him dead, the pain of not being trusted, of being betrayed.

He is still angry, somewhere deep inside, and he is not entirely sure if he has forgiven Sherlock already, if he will ever be able to forgive him completely, but these feelings find their place somewhere in the last corner of his heart, the rest of it being occupied by… simple relief and utter joy that Sherlock is alive.

Alive.

Breathing, sleeping on John's sofa. On _their _sofa.

And fine.

Relatively fine.

Of course John still remembers the initial shock, the moment when he has suddenly seen Sherlock's face, not blurring, not a hallucination, but real, directly in front of him. Real.

The headbutt John has delivered has been real, too, causing blood to spurt from Sherlock's nose, John remembers as he takes a seat on the table, never turning his gaze away from Sherlock's face.

And he still remembers the sound his second punch has made, splitting Sherlock's lip open, costing him one of his molar teeth. And the third one, delivered to his stomach, sending him to the floor, gasping for breath and wheezing 'John!'.

John.

He has not realised before how much he has missed the way Sherlock says his name, full of sincerity, with his deep voice. His name being mumbled plus the arms restraining him all of a sudden have been what has kept him from doing further damage to his dead best friend.

He has been so furious, he recalls as he now studies the lines on Sherlock's pale, relaxed face. Lines. Both of them have got more of these now than they have had two years earlier.

Mary has talked a bit of sense into him, enough sense to start listening to Sherlock - and press him into an almost desperate hug in the middle of his clogged sounding explanation, not caring about the blood Sherlock spills on John's coat. Not caring about anything else except for the breathing and living body in his arms, except for the heart he can feel beating in Sherlock's chest.

Alive.

It has taken him until that moment, John assumes, that he has registered what 'alive' means.

When he is looking at Sherlock now, at his pallidness, at how gaunt his face has become, at the smugdes beneath his eyes, his greatest fear suddenly once more becomes losing Sherlock.

John feels sore and stiff all over from the past day, from once more fighting criminals, a man belonging to Moriarty's net, as Sherlock has called it, a man who has been out to kill Sherlock.

Sherlock, John and Mary. And Mary.

They have had the upper hand, in the end, Sherlock and Mary saving John, John trying to protect Sherlock. He still shudders when he thinks about the moment Moran has chosen to try to knock Sherlock out, of how John, after only about 24 hours, has suddenly had cause to feel that sting again, that sting telling him: Sherlock is dead.

Shoving these thoughts aside, John concentrates on the man lying on the sofa, covered by one of Mrs Hudson's old-fashioned blankets.

Alive. Sherlock is alive.

John barely manages to withstand the urge to press two fingers against his neck, to make sure that he is fine. But he does not want to risk waking Sherlock - who has not, as he has admitted rather unwillingly, slept for four days -, so he simply stays where he is, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall.

They have not had many opportunities to talk, to talk about what Sherlock has done, about what John has been through in the past two years, about how it will go on. About how their friendship will continue, if at all.

If at all.

John is not stupid, and he is a doctor. He can now, after his initial rage and hurt have subsided, clearly see the white scar on Sherlock's neck, peeking out where the collar of his T-shirt (John's T-shirt which is, of course, too big for Sherlock) has slipped to the side. And he can see that Sherlock has lost weight, probably more than he can afford, and that he is exhausted.

Exhausted.

Sherlock Holmes is not supposed to be exhausted.

But then, it does not really matter because Sherlock is _back_. Back. John has been given his miracle.

Sherlock shifts on the sofa, entangling himself in the blanket, groaning.

John does not hesitate to search for his hand and grab it, attempting to comfort him. Or to comfort himself.

All of the tabloid magazines would flip out if they saw this little gesture, he muses.

He does not care. All that counts is that he has got Sherlock back.

He has never exactly pondered the nature of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, but he is not gay, never has been, and he will wed Mary, the only one for him.

But, as he finally dares to admit to himself, in the middle of the night, while watching his sleeping friend and holding his hand, he loves Sherlock.

He loves him like… There is no comparison, at least none John deems suitable enough for Sherlock.

He has absolutely no idea how it has happened, how this man whose first words to him have been "Afghanistan or Iraq?" has managed to occupy at least half of his heart, has managed to make John trust him and find joy in his life again.

But it has happened, and John is eternally grateful for it. All of it.

Sherlock has become his - John is aware of how pathetic it sounds, but it is true - his anchor, in the eighteen months they have been living together, his anchor, his best friend. The best friend he could have ever wished for.

The anchor has been gone, and now it is back, and John will do anything, anything at all, to protect Sherlock, to keep him safe. Not that he would ever tell Sherlock who does not do sentiment (and of course John knows that is not true, because he knows Sherlock, because he has seen the look in his best friend's eyes as he has stood in front of John two days ago, anxiously awaiting his reation). He has been missed, he knows that much.

Listening to Sherlock's breathing and feeling his hand curl loosely around John's suddenly makes him light-headed.

Luck. So much luck.

He has got Sherlock back, and the woman of his life has agreed to marry him.

Luck.

Sherlock shifts again, turning his head a tiny bit, and the grip on John's hand tightens.

John has to smile.

It is not a dream, it is real. Not a dream. Reality.

One more miracle.

His miracle is sleeping on the sofa. On their sofa.

John's smile broadens. They will have to do a lot of talking, they will have to sort things out, John will probably feel the urge to punch Sherlock again, once, twice, three times… His anger will reappear, covering his sheer happiness, they will have to find out how everything is going to develop, with John being engaged, with John moving out, with Sherlock being back.

At the moment, John could not care less.

"Sherlock," he mumbles, enjoying the feeling of this name on his tongue, of the name without its usual sting of loss and grief. "Thank you," he tells his sleeping best friend. "Thank you.

His throat constricts, and he finds himself unable to say any more words. There is no need to, probably.

Reality will not disappear, and Sherlock will still be here tomorrow, and they will still have time to talk.

Yawning, incredibly tired by now, John almost hesitantly unwraps his hand from Sherlock's and gets to his feet.

Reality. A miracle. He can, in fact, as he realises only now, ask Sherlock, his best friend, whether he will be his best man. And Sherlock will have to agree, John will not accept a decline.

This reality, John decides while he is walking upstairs, heading for his bed, a warm feeling spreading inside him, is definitely better than all of his dreams.

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Thank you very much for reading. If you happen to have any thoughts, do not hesitate to share them with me!


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